


In the Pines

by Marasa



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Addiction, Adding tags as I go along, Christianity, Delusions, Disturbing, Doubt, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Insanity, M/M, Nightmares, Obsession, Preacher Tyler, Religious Guilt, Snakes, Visions, body praise, just getting started
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-12-23 06:59:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11984592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marasa/pseuds/Marasa
Summary: An obsidian tongue flicks the tattooed cross on Tyler’s wrist.





	1. The Devil's Henchman

This one is beautiful.

Black diamonds down its spine, blue eyes like frozen flame, holographic shimmering scales. Straight from the jungles of South America, it burrows four feet underground with nothing but the tip of its nose out of the ground like some deadly flower. This creature of God thrives on the cold. It eats tarantulas the size of possums that happen to wander over it's nose poking up from the filth of the ground.

The Devil’s Henchman, it is called, on account of the way its venom moves through its victim’s bloodstream like hell fire, melting every cell in its path.

An obsidian tongue flicks the tattooed cross on Tyler’s wrist.

Tyler does not use his own $1990 to purchase it off an underground website hidden behind many proxies. He uses God’s money. A prepaid card filled with money straight from the church’s savings covers the costs.

Once the payment goes through, some faceless and nameless dealer is digging up the slippery creature deep in the jungles on the southern hemisphere and shipping it to Ohio in a pillowcase at the bottom of a wooden crate.

Tyler had ripped open the stapled-shut bag and expertly dodged the bite of the snake as it had lurched at him him, hissing and displaying its fangs.

He waited patiently until the reptile had calmed until he reached inside and allowed it to wrap around his forearm, lips twitching in a silent proclamation of faith as he handled the deadly reptile.

“ _Yeshua, sefria shula lilli mesua, praise be to Jesus Christ, Holy Father_ ,” Tyler had murmured in tongues as his fingers skimmed smooth black scales. The snake did not once open its mouth against him as it wrapped around his wrist and taken from the box.

Tyler holds his arms in front of his face as he sits on the steps of the small stage at the front of the church, head following the movement of the snake as it tastes the air and looks around. 

Tyler thinks the creature must be confused to find itself here in an air conditioned room of bright light after being so accustomed to darkness. Maybe it's a little sad, being taken from its home but here, it will have a good life. Here, it may even be considered an angel.

The Devil’s Henchman- Tyler smiles. No one will have to know its name and the irony that it elicits. They don’t need to know the name, only need to know what it resembles.

Tyler leans over to his right without getting up from the carpeted steps and from a shelf behind the pulpit, Tyler grabs a small plastic cup similar to that of a cup a doctor would request someone to piss in.

Over the top of it is pulled a canvas paper skin, held tight by an elastic band. Tyler thrums his finger on the top of it. The sound echoes like a tiny drum.

With another quick prayer, Tyler carefully unwraps the snake from his hand. When the snake gives no immediate upset, he works quickly. He grips the reptile's neck tight enough that he can feel the spikes of bone of its spine digging into his fingers.

The snake stalls, confused for a moment by how it is being handled. Tyler squeezes and slides his grip a little further up to the hinges of its jaw while it is still taken off guard. 

Like a trap door, the snake’s mouth pops open involuntarily with the pressure applied to it. Twin fangs glow gray under fluorescent light, shining like dirty slivers of pearl. With a thumb on the back of its head, Tyler pushes its teeth through the paper pulled like a pigskin over the top of the cup.

The snake clamps down out of instinct, bottom fangs scrabbling against smooth plastic. Tyler holds it still, keeping its fangs on the paper.

He watches, hypnotized as aquamarine liquid dribbles from the tips of its teeth and empties into the cup, thick like sap. Tyler pushes down on the snake’s head and more venom gathers at the bottom.

The snake’s body begins to curl in annoyance and Tyler promptly pulls it off because he has respect for all God's creatures but he doesn't know if they have the same respect for him. That's why he makes sure to keep his grip on the thing’s neck tight so it doesn’t turn around and bite him.

Faith and truth, Tyler knows, is a balance. Prayers no longer pass his lips as he substitutes faith for the truth of the situation, knowing that no matter how much he prays right now for protection after pissing off the snake in his grip, God will not keep him safe.

Cup on the ground beside him, The Devil’s Henchman is quickly placed back in the pillowcase. Tyler shuts the crate’s top but it does nothing to hide the loud hissing and the thumping against the sides of the box in a violent attempt to attack him through a sheet of splinters.

A good investment, Tyler thinks as he swirls the venom in the cup, watching as it clings to the plastic, gooey like mucus. It looks like a melted down gem stone, sparkling under the overhead light.

His mouth waters and he swallows roughly, flaring his nostrils as he exhales. Tyler gives a glance to the clock hanging on the right wall, just above the wooden cross, just under the framed picture of Jesus Christ.

7:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes till the church will be full, till it will be loud and thrumming, air throbbing more roughly than a night club.

The thirty-eighth addition to Tyler's collection hisses in its crate as he peels back the punctured paper from the top of the cup. Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes is enough time for him to be feeling good.

Tyler brings the cup to his mouth and shoots back venom thicker than blood.

It doesn't even take fifteen minutes. Immediately, his veins hum with warmth and his head swirls with newfound dizziness. The cup falls from his trembling hand and rolls down the three red steps he sits on. 

His head is tilted back to rest on the pulpit, breathing heavily as he rides high on the intense sensation of the venom dripping down his throat like cotton, cozy and nurturing.

Twelve million colors swirl behind his eyelids. His skeleton leaves through his nose as he exhales deeply. He leans completely on the side of the pulpit as he drowns in the feelings pouring through him like the blood from Jesus' side.

He gasps, looking skyward. Tyler feels high. Tyler feels holy.

He finds his tongue in the mess of his euphoria so he can gurgle out one more prayer- "Praise be to God."


	2. And Nothing Shall By Any Means Hurt You

Tyler opens the doors of the church at 8 p.m.

The venom is still working through him with a pleasant warmth that relaxes his muscles. The hum within him helps a welcoming smile grace his face easier.

Parked cars litter the large field in front of the church, the line of trees of the dense forest a few yards away looking dangerously shaded at this time of night. From pick up trucks and worn SUVs come wrinkled faces, exhausted with life and inkling with the pain of the world.

They’re dressed up like they’re on their way to a Sunday service but it’s a Friday night and their service is nothing like a droning Sunday service. It's more of a celebration, loud and intense. Other churches must be jealous because when they speak of Tyler Joseph’s denomination, nothing but sharp remarks are spoken.

Tyler knows what they think about him.

Front three years, he has heard their whispering when he’s filling up his car at the gas station or in line at the bank: “That’s the young preacher,” “He’s the one with all the snakes!” “Someone should call the police on him,” “No, just let one of those cobras of his kill him, haha.”

By the grace of God, Tyler found it in himself to turn the other cheek. Instead, he focused on his breathing and smiled at them with a quiet prayer whispered for God to preserve his patience.

“Mr. Birch.” Tyler smiles warmly at an older man with a walker moving through the door, cane keeping his weak body mobile. He places a gentle hand on the man's hunched back. Tyler can feel the sick frailty under his palm. “How are you, sir? How is your health?”

Mr. Birch smiles up at him. “I’m hanging in there, Pastor,” he says. “With the grace of God, I’ll be better.”

Mr. Birch’s waning health is obvious as he seems thinner than last week, and the week before that. He looks more like a skeleton every time Tyler sees him but the man’s smile is always so bright. He has faith, but even as a pastor, Tyler doesn't think his faith is that strong.

“Yes,” Tyler says, in spite of his disgusting doubt, “with the grace of God.”

A gentle hand is placed on the top of Mr. Birch’s head. The old man closes his eyes to receive the blessing the preacher is administering but as Tyler begins whispering his quick prayer, he catches the sight of something pink moving in the field behind the old man.

From the darkness of night does a man step into the light cast from the open door. Ripped black jeans and a bright pink mohawk, a green jacket over a white shirt, the man Tyler has never seen before captures his whole attention.

Tyler wracks his brain for anything he can remember about this venom. He doesn't think it included hallucinations but he could be wrong. The warnings he read up on it had been translated through Google Translate and that always butchered meaning.

Tyler is embarrassed by how eagerly he has sucked down that venom with barely any research. He refuses to admit he has a problem.

The image could be real and Tyler really hopes it is because this punk angel looks straight from Heaven, an archangel maybe with muscled arms bulging under his jacket. This man is heavenly.

The prayer stops as the man comes closer, Tyler’s unwavering gaze focused on how his five o'clock shadow contours the bottom half of his face and over his Adam’s apple that bulges like a delicious poison fruit stuck in his throat.

With each step, his image becomes clearer so that Tyler can see the razor burn just under his jaw, a shallow scrape scabbed over almost black.

Tyler licks his lips.

“Excuse me,” Tyler says to the new face with oblivious urgency, eyes never leaving the man climbing the last step to the front doors Tyler has so graciously opened.

Mr. Birch, recently forgotten, looks up at Tyler now that the pastor’s nails are biting into his bald head.

“Pastor-”

“Peace be with you, Mr. Birch,” Tyler cuts him off with not even a glance, “now please go take your seat.”

Tyler’s hand on his head pushes Mr. Birch in the direction of the seats a little too hard, making the sick man stumble forward a few steps and fumble with his cane.

Tyler notices but doesn't apologize.

The man coming inside looks up at the initial call, looking like Samuel when God called his name in the night. Tyler’s head is pounding and there's a heat crawling up the back of his neck and the lack of a filter this deep into his high makes for a loose tongue that he can't hope to control.

“Your hair,” Tyler says, “your hair is the color of an Albino Chinese Diamondback.”

The man standing opposite him smiles awkwardly, brown eyes searching Tyler’s face for an explanation, maybe waiting for the punchline of a joke. The eye contact brings a weakness to Tyler’s knees that makes him want to kneel before the other man as if he were, as if…

Tyler stops himself before it can become too blasphemous.

“Is an Albino-whatever pink?” the man asks with a smirk and a weirded-out look.

Tyler’s lips tremble. “The most beautiful pink to ever grace God’s green Earth.”

The man’s smile grows as the preacher jumps subtly, clears his throat, tries to recover. The pastor doesn't know why he has such a reaction as this, but there's a piece of him buried deep at the back of his brain that knows exactly why.

It's the way the man's pink lips shimmer with a thin film of spit just as he stands in the light of the church, saliva looking like a makeshift lip gloss that makes soft skin appear softer. Of course his natural reaction is for his legs to bend.

But kneeling for another man- it's such a sacrilegious thought, Tyler knows. He blames it on the venom of a snake named after the Devil and not on his own questionable thoughts.

“I-I don’t recall ever seeing you before.” Tyler holds his hand out and refuses to acknowledge his initial awkwardness. “My name is Tyler. I'm the pastor of this church.”

The other man’s grip is perfectly stable to Tyler’s own wet, loose one. It keeps him on his feet as that floatless feeling courses through him. The man speaks again, though, and Tyler is sure he’ll actually go to his knees this time.

“Josh.” When Josh begins to release his hand, Tyler holds on for a millisecond too long. Josh doesn't mention it, but his discomfort at Tyler’s silent staring shows clearly on his face.

“Um, yeah, okay,” Josh clears his throat with a tight smile. Tyler doesn't say anything, too high to recognize social cues at the moment, let alone time. “Okay, well, Tyler, you have a very nice church. Very, uh, quaint.”

Josh gives a look around the church. Tyler looks with him almost too enthusiastically.

It isn’t that large of a crowd given the small venue, nothing more than a single room. It's an old-fashioned church that might have been lost to termites and decay had Tyler not worked hard work to keep it intact.

It is quaint. It is nice. Josh tells the truth.

“I saved it,” Tyler murmurs, eyes dragging across the walls that he had built. “I'm still saving it.”

Tyler looks back to see Josh looking straight at him, eyes narrowed just a little as he leans in, almost seeming to be inspecting the size of his trembling pupils. Tyler doesn't care, can only focus on the proximity between them. His knees buckle a little in front of this angel and he has to catch himself before he actually drops down.

“How old are you?” Josh asks, genuinely curious.

“How old are you?” Tyler asks back without any thought, just has no control over his mouth.

“Twenty-six.”

“Twenty-five,” Tyler says.

Josh quirks an eyebrow. “So you're a year younger than me, have built your own church, lead your own church and all these people are way older than you.” Josh smirks and gives a light whistle. “That's pretty damn impressive.”

Tyler’s forehead twitches at the swear. It's a little juvenile, sure, but he can't help but be sensitive to such language given his pious lifestyle. It must be clear on his face because Josh sucks his lips in his mouth for just a second in acknowledgment, a silent promise to not do it again.

“I have a calling.” Tyler’s shoulders are slouched, not out of defeat but at awe of the other man’s energy, presence, aura. He can't pinpoint it. He kind of can. He doesn't know- his brain feels like cotton and it's hard to know much right now.

“And you can't ignore that sort of thing, I'm sure,” Josh says.

Tyler shakes his head like a child, eyes and pupils wide as he looks up at the man. “It hurts when I try to ignore it,” Tyler says. Josh’s brow pinches a bit at his wording. “This is what I was meant to do.”

Josh looks confused, eyes searching Tyler’s face, but there's respect in his gaze, an understanding. He doesn't look like the majority of the town that talks badly about him, who hate him. Sometimes Tyler finds beheaded snakes on his front porch. There's blood. There's always blood.

Josh doesn't look like someone who would ever do that.

“How have I never seen you?” Tyler asks, maybe a little unprofessional.

“I just moved here.” Josh shrugs and older members of the church move past them to their seats, smiling in Tyler’s direction in greeting. Tyler acts like they don't even exist. “Just looking for a parish to be a part of and I heard about a church in the woods. Had to come check it out.”

Tyler doesn't ask what else he's heard, hopes he hasn't heard much else out of fear of judgment from someone he's just met but whose opinion he cares very much about for an unknown reason.

“I want to welcome you to our parish,” Tyler says to Josh. “We’re glad to have you.”

Tyler smiles. Josh smiles. Tyler feels light as Josh moves past him and slips into a seat at the very back of the church in the last pew.

By 8:30, everyone has arrived.

Tyler shuts the doors to the darkness that encroaches on everything outside. The large lock on the doors is turned and it goes quiet inside, the small conversations at the front of the church ceasing.

Tyler can feel Josh’s eyes on him as he walks up the strip of crimson red carpet in the middle of the church to the podium at the front. It's soft under Tyler’s polished shoes and he is glad he chose this color of carpet when renovating the small church- it doesn't show any stain.

Up three small steps to the slightly elevated stage, Tyler slips behind the mahogany podium. His notes are strewn on it, rapid words that tangle together and blur in his dizzy vision.

Stillness and silence falls over them. Every feeling in Tyler’s body is amplified under the hot lights and in front of a crowd of attentive people, one of whom is an angel disguised as a man with pink hair and a nice smile and a scab under his jaw. Tyler shutters a breath of anxiety, exhilaration, eagerness.

“It is…” Tyler blinks down at his notes that seem to be written in an entirely different language. “Friiiiday….”

Yes, that is a solid way to start, he thinks. Tyler smiles to himself and forgets his notes all together, turning them over to their blank backs.

“Thank you all for joining me in this service to praise our Lord, the Lord that looks down on us, forgives us, loves us forever.” Tyler wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His breath is semi shallow. Doubt coils in his stomach.

Tyler looks down to his congregation, he thinks for some kind of assurance and encouragement. Attacked is all he feels as he takes in their warm faces.

Mr. Birch smiles up at him. The man so close to death looks at him with fondness and warmth that makes Tyler’s heart ache. Ms. Gina, a sixty-year-old woman that lost her daughter to an overdose and whose son never calls her, looks at Tyler like he holds the answers. Josh is at the very back, a spectator and seemingly separate from this service, so far away, but Tyler still feels an uncertainty and need radiating from the last pew he occupies.

Tyler wishes he were closer. He's always so sensitive when he's high and now he doesn't even know Josh but he needs him closer.

Tyler goes to reach forward in Josh’s direction before he can even think about but thankfully stops himself before his hand can get too far. He stops, brings his hand down to grip the front edge of the podium. His fingernails ache against the wood as he presses into it.

These people, God’s people, the lost, the broken, are in need of something that Tyler feels in need of as well. He feels vulnerable in this state of mind but musters fake strength and stability. He speaks words that are not on the pages before him but from his heart. It is out of his hands now.

He is floating, he is not completely here because as long as he is not completely here, he doesn't have to feels so inadequate, a hack, a total liar. He doesn't know why he feels that way. He kinda knows. He doesn't want to think about it.

Tyler swallows.

“I am so...thankful, to be here with you,” Tyler says, passion trickling into his words. “Each and every one of you is a blessing in my life. Old friends,” Tyler looks at Mr. Birch’s skeleton face, “new friends,” Tyler looks at Josh and tries not to kneel.

“And on nights like this, I wish…” Tyler glances at the ceiling, to the right wall, to the door, because he needs alleviation from this pain and stress that is life, “I want to build you up in glory and truth. I want to reassure you, to make your load lesser. I'm going to try to do that tonight.”

The congregation hums, nods. Josh’s eyes are soft.

“The ways to worship the Lord,” Tyler begins, gripping the podium and not looking at the paper below him, “are many. What we do is not...wrong. Others will say it is wrong because they lack in understanding, and more importantly, faith. Be reassured in this truth, you faithful.”

Tyler looks up at his congregation. Their eyes are trained on him closely, like they're ready to jump up at any moment in excitement. They know it's coming. Tyler knows it is too. He can feel it in the air like caustic snake spit in his veins.

“I have respect for those who only pray once a day.” Tyler trembles involuntarily from the influence of the hand of the Devil’s Henchman stroking his arteries. “I have respect for those who attend a large church. I have respect for those who are gone from the Lord like a lamb gone from the flock and return to Him.” The congregation nod their heads enthusiastically in agreement.

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut. It seems to them that he is moved by his words. He is actually moved by the way his spine feels like a neon sign buzzing inside of him. It is delicious.

“Yet, they who call themselves accepting and loving fail to respect us. They call us horrible names and hate us, but, but,” Tyler’s face goes relaxed, his whole body goes loose as his mind swims in warmth. These are the waves translated from those warnings in Portuguese- ' _waves of tension and relaxation of all muscles in the body_.' “That. Is. Fine.”

He stands a little straighter, still swaying on his feet. A smile ghosts his fade. Tyler embraces the warmth that feels worth the $1990 price tag.

“Remember the eighth and final beatitude, you faithful- ‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.”

The response is immediate.

It may even be the Kingdom of Heaven here behind these wood walls in the woods as the small but passionate congregation voices their agreement in an excited rabble. Tyler opens his eyes just in time to see them stand to their feet in the first few pews. They look ready to go, eager. All they need is Tyler’s permission.

Tyler gives it to them.

He reaches into a shelf of the podium and grabs a tupperware. Inside, a snake squirms and uncoils, searching for an out through the foggy plastic. He peels the top from it and sees the black scales of the reptile in all their deep glory, almost looking the same color as the woods just outside the locked doors.

They don't need to know it's name, only what it resembles.

“‘Behold,’” Tyler recites the scripture easily as he picks up the Devil’s Henchman from the plastic container, “‘I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.’”

Adrenaline pumps throughout his body, battling the slow burn of Devil venom, an intoxicating mixture of a downer and upper mingling together. It will happen in waves and he is surfing, coasting along, letting those waves carry him. It makes him smile, laugh, hold the obsidian snake above his head with both hands like an offering.

Tyler risks a peek at Josh in the back pew. From here, he can see how wide his eyes are.

“Faith, I say to you,” Tyler says and the creature tastes the air and never opens its mouth against him, “praise your Lord and have faith that He shall protect you. Praise Him and all the good He does, for you are here tonight. Be joyous on this night and give Him praise for the blessings He bestows upon you.”

Two men are beside him immediately, each one reaching into the same shelf for more tupperware. Those too are opened and a cottonmouth and copperhead are brought down to the people in the hands of faithful men.

Another man hurries to the piano on the left of the podium, another one picks up the fiddle resting atop it, a woman picks up a tambourine from the floor. The sound that arises from them is unpracticed and warped, almost menacing and dark but the wailing of thin strings and the bashing of off-white keys pumps them full of energy and pushes them forward.

It happens so quickly.

It's craziness, it's uncontrollable, it's loud, so, so loud.

The warped sound works with Tyler’s high perfectly.

Perhaps it is the words, Tyler thinks, or maybe it is the music that thrums darkly that makes Josh’s eyes wide and flighty at the back of the small church. Or maybe it is the power of God that is influencing him or an awakening of a new faith that brings a look of intense shock to the angel’s lovely face.

But Tyler swears he can see a certain fire in Josh’s eyes that burns like venom. It's a yearning, an interest, a faith- a fresh faith. It is a faith that is needed.

Tyler waits, needs, for Josh to join the excitement but the man remains sitting in the last pew while everyone else spills out of their own pews and surrounds Tyler now that he stands among them.

They reach for the ceiling like they're reaching for God. They come in close and jump together in a tight circle, moved by the sudden energy coursing through the air. Tyler stomps his feet and throws his head back to the grimy notes filling the church, holding the squirming length of poison in his hands above them.

Faith. Tyler has faith the snake will not bite him. Tyler has faith that God will save him.

Tyler stomps harder, jumps higher, sweats more as he tries to convince himself that his faith is just as strong as it has always been and not deeply damaged and flawed.

 _If he lacks faith_ , Tyler prays, _may he be poisoned by the serpent._

Tyler waits, braces himself for the fangs to pierce his skin, but the serpent does not bite him. Tyler exhales a hard shot of breath and sings his praise to God and rides high in his ecstasy.

He has faith, he knows it. He just has to remember and it's so hard to remember anything when he's so high all the time.

Tyler opens his eyes. Venomous snakes swirl the air, the congregation prays and sings in tongues, they are lost in their unique form of worship that evades respect and flirts with death.

The music reaches its crescendo and his vision swims with adrenaline, deep prayer and venom. The screaming of tongues tears his ears and the snake in his hand coils and flashes its fangs at the air but never at his hand.

This is what Tyler was meant to do.

Tyler searches for Josh. He needs Josh here, with them, that new faith he has, he needs to be beside him here. He wants to share this with him, needs to share this ecstasy with him.

Over bouncing heads and reaching hands, Tyler can see clearly a head of pink hair move out the church doors.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is.....Friiiiiiiday....


	3. Lobotomy

It's always the same dream.

Darkness. The deepest darkness to ever exist. It’s hopelessness, abandonment, so dark that Tyler can not discern his body from the shadow. He can see nothing, feel nothing; in those moments, Tyler does not feel alive. He feels as though he doesn’t even exist.

Then comes the light.

Light. The brightest light to ever exist. It’s hope, love, so bright that Tyler can see that he is lying in a pit of snakes. The creatures under him seem unaffected by the blinding light as they continue their squirming beneath him in a knot of smooth scales and long fangs that scratch but never bite him.

Tyler’s eyes well with tears as snakes slither over him, burying him in their bodies slowly. But Tyler doesn’t fight it. He can’t take his eyes from that light above that warms him, gives him purpose. He reaches for it, reaches for whatever it is, he isn’t sure.

His eyes cook, burning in his skull at the intensity of the light and in the glare that ricochets at the back of his head and back through the lenses of his eyes, he sees patterns of holy math.

He sees evolution, crucifixion, the swirl of galaxies, just the faintest peek of heaven. He sees dark eyes deep in the center of that light, glaring eyes that are surrounded in the fire of the approaching rapture, the apocalypse. Looking up, weeping, suffering, reaching, Tyler knows this to be the face of a god.

It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying. It’s always the same.

Maybe it’s supposed to mean something. Maybe the colors portray a sense of emotion, maybe the images that repeat themselves represent broader concepts he’s just not seeing.

Tyler thinks he feels like Joseph, the one from Genesis, although, he’s traded in the technicolor dream coat for deep black bags that hang heavy under his eyes.

Tyler has not slept in four days.

Tyler leans on the shopping cart with a majority of his weight now that his ankles are weak. His feet slip and slide against the tile. He looks drunk, one eye completely closed while the other threatens to close too, feet below him tripping and stumbling.

The cocktail of venom ingested an hour beforehand is the only thing keeping him awake.

The flask stuck in his belt sloshes with half Virginian Double Tongue venom and Soft Skull Cobra venom. It’s a happy marriage of something that hits like cocaine and something that hits like heroin. It makes his heart pump a little irregularly but it keeps him on his feet.

Tyler stumbles and bumps his cart into a display of organic dog food.

He’s trying to stay on his feet.

He’s just not ready to sleep yet. Tyler always has the same dream and for some reason, he can’t bear it at the moment. The past week has been tough. It leaves him slower, more confused, more exhausted and higher than he's ever been. 

That's why Tyler stands in front of a glass tank of desert lizards a whole ten minutes before realizing that they are not, in fact, any kind of rodent. The lizard behind the glass with horns all around its head sticks its pink tongue out at him.

Tyler blinks hard, leans down and sticks his own tongue out at it. His balance is offset for a moment and he ends up leaning too far forward so that his forehead is pressed against the glass. It’s almost as cold as the flask pressed against his hip.

“Can I help you?”

Tyler’s forehead on the glass makes a squeak sound as he turns his head toward the voice.

A young employee in a blue apron stands at the end of the small aisle, looking strangely at him. Tyler has trouble standing up straight again but somehow manages with a sloppy push from the tank. 

“Mm,” Tyler squints his eyes and puts on the facade like he’s thinking hard about it but inside his head, there are no thoughts; he’s almost too high to function. “D’ya have any...puppies?” 

The kid furrows his brow. “Excuse me?”

“Like, puppies. Dogs. Any kind a puppy.”

“A-Are you looking to adopt a dog?”

“Nuh,” Tyler slurs. “I gah snakes...”

The kid cuts him off. “N-No sir, we don’t have puppies.”

Tyler lifts an eyebrow, chin tilted down, eyes staring up at him. “Are you lying?”

"Wh-What?" the kid says.

Tyler hums. “God doesn’t like liars.”

It's quiet for a moment between them, Tyler looking at him with dark eyes and the young employee looking back at him with fear clear in his face. The kid backs up, tripping over his laces in his rush to get as far away from the pastor as fast as possible.

Tyler looks at the empty spot left behind by him as he takes the flask from his belt, opens it and sucks it down. His blood goes even warmer. His heart pitter-patters almost too irregularly, so hard that it makes his chest sore.

It's wonderful.

Tyler passes by the deep blue wall of exotic fish. They swim in vibrant schools of bright yellow, bright green, bright orange. His eyes catch a regal looking pink fish, so pink it can only remind him of someone who's been on his mind so much it's borderline obsessive.

Tyler doesn’t know what he did wrong.

Josh was there in the church. And then he wasn’t. 

He left before the service even ended and it hurts Tyler. He doesn’t know why it does, all he knows is that he’s been feeling more lost now that Josh has been absent for the past week, not even bothering to return to last night’s Friday service.

Tyler had been waiting eagerly to see the man emerge from the forest again with his pink hair and beautiful smile but then, he hasn't shown. 

Tyler's sermon had been about how God’s church misses its lost sheep. 

Josh's absence hurts Tyler to think about it. He hates that it does. He didn't even know Josh but he feels like he had known him forever. Tyler drinks and drinks and drinks venom until he can't think of much.

The pink fish swims by itself behind the glass in an artificial ocean. Tyler misses Josh.

Tyler presses himself against the glass. His palms are flat against the smooth surface on either side of his head, his forehead pressed against it. His eyes are closed. Behind his eyelids, the blue light somehow infiltrates, turning his eye sockets to small fishbowls in his head.

There, a pink fish the same color as Josh’s hair swims from eye to eye, never leaving Tyler’s mind. Tyler can imagine that in this position, it could almost look like he was in deep in prayer but no holy words formulate in his head. His head is empty and it’s so soothing.

Something jingles below him.

Tyler opens his eyes and looks down to see a small Yorkshire Terrier standing alone beside him. The collar around its neck has a little bell on it that jingles when it wags its tail. House pet to most, it looks like an overgrown rodent to Tyler. He knew they had dogs here.

“Puppy…” Tyler drools. He reaches down so he can collect it and place it in the basket.

The movement offsets his balance. He’s too top heavy as he leans over and then he’s falling, seemingly in slow motion. The dog runs away with a small yelp of surprise, getting out of the way just in time for Tyler’s nose to bust against the sleek, unforgiving tile.

Blood explodes from his nostrils almost comically. Deep crimson against the white floor, the same color red as the rapture that he sees surrounding those eyes that plague his dreams. 

It’s always the same. He can never get it out of his head.

At the sound of footsteps growing louder behind him, the preacher pushes himself up on weak arms and turns around.

The blue light that the wall of fish tanks to his right radiates makes Tyler disoriented. He tries to focus his gaze as he looks up at a man now bent over him. He must’ve hit his face too hard because everything has gone blurry.

Everything is jumbled up in his head, blood drips past his lips, off his chin and onto his clothes. Tyler is too high to really care.

It takes a few strong blinks for the image to come into focus. Tyler sucks in a breath and immediately attempts to crawl backwards but his sweaty palms slide against the tile. He’s falling back once more, the back of his head hitting the floor with a painfully audible thud, right in the middle of the pool of blood. It splashes around his head disgustingly.

“Look who it is,” the man above him spits. "Oh, Tyler, what have you done?”

Blood down his face, pupils blown, Tyler still looks up at the man defiantly. The temptation to kick him in the jaw as he leans over is so strong but he lacks the strength in his limbs to actually consider it.

Mark Eshleman. 

Hate is such a strong word but that's the only word Tyler can think of as they glare at each other.

“Falling on the fucking floor, busting your nose, bleeding all over yourself, all in the middle of a PetSmart.” Mark leans in closer and narrows his eyes. “You dizzy motherfucker.” 

“Get away from me,” Tyler growls. The small dog from earlier growls at him from behind Mark’s foot. The preacher’s eyes snap toward the small pest.

“Don’t look at my dog, you freak,” Mark hisses. “She’s here to get a coat before it starts snowing, not get dognapped by your weird ass.” Mark grits his teeth. “A part of me almost wishes you would take her, Joseph, feed her to your illegal pets so I’d have a reason to fucking sue you.”

Tyler places a hand against the aquarium beside him and pushes himself up. He doesn't break Mark's judging eye contact the entire time.

“What headline should I write?” Mark says. “‘Snake Preacher Found High as a Fucking Kite In PetSmart’ or, ‘Weirdo Freak Breaks His Nose By the Fucking Aquariums After Trying to Steal a Dog.’” He scoffs. “You’re such a freak show, Tyler Joseph.”

Tyler curls his right hand into a fist. Mark catches the movement. 

"What? You're gonna hit me?" Mark says with a nasty smirk. "Whatever happened to, 'turn the other cheek'? Who cares; you're too fucking high to even throw one punch."

Tyler hates that Mark is right. “Leave me alone,” Tyler grounds out.

“Leave you alone? I wish you’d leave all those people alone,” Mark shoots back, “your ‘followers.’ Victims more like it, but you know all about that, don't you?”

Tyler furrows his brow. He doesn't expect anything less from Mark. It's a low blow, one that hurts just as much as all the other shit he's been dealing with but he tries not to dwell on it because now is not the time to.

Tyler wipes the blood dripping from his nose but only ends up smearing it across his whole face. He can feel it on his cheek, his eyelashes, his hair. Tyler licks his lips and tastes a broken nose. He’s a mess.

“I can tell how troubled your spirit is,” Tyler says. “Restless, difficult; I’m going to pray for you, Mark. You desperately need it.”

Mark scrunches up his face, hands turning to fists at his sides. “You condescending asshol-” 

The distinct sound of licking interrupts them.

They turn to see Mark’s small dog standing in the middle of the puddle of blood on the floor. She laps up the unnaturally thick liquid up into her mouth. The consistency is horrid, like jelly, and it’s pumping that thick in Tyler’s veins now.

“Lulu!” Mark pushes past Tyler, swoops down hurriedly and picks up his dog. The long hair around the animal’s mouth and hanging off her chin is drenched in blood. Her little paws drip with the stuff.

“You sick fucker,” Mark says, “I hope you rot in Hell.”

Then Mark is hurrying down the aisle in the direction of the front door, tiny dog coat forgotten. He won't need it. 

What Mark does not know, and what Tyler does, is that the blood ingested by the small animal is so tainted with high levels of deadly venom that before Mark even gets home, the dog will be dead.

Tyler says a quick prayer for the poor animal that stuck its nose where it didn’t belong. It would’ve lived longer if only Tyler had grabbed it. 

“Sir?” 

Tyler turns to see that kid from earlier standing there looking mortified. Tyler looks to the messy floor splattered with blood, his own clothes stained red, the serene, blue aquarium tank with a bloody hand smeared on it. The pink fish inside swims in circles and stops right in front of the bloody print, its interest clear. Tyler stares at the fish. The pink color is heavenly, beautiful, pretty but not as pretty as Josh's.

Josh.

Tyler misses Josh.

“S-Sir?” the employee repeats.

Tyler sniffs wetly and turns.

“I’m gonna need four rabbits,” Tyler says and points to the aquarium beside him, “and that pink fish. Thank you.”


	4. The Pit of Hell

Tyler spends most of the day on his knees.

It’s tempting to lie and say that Mark’s comment didn’t gravelly upset him but he’s trying to be better and not sin. Tyler prays and prays and prays as Mark’s words repeat in his head- “ _Your ‘followers.’ Victims more like it. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you_?”

_Wouldn't you?_

_Wouldn't you?_

_Wouldn't you?_

Tyler’s knees are stiff and ache after more than four hours of kneeling, but he doesn’t dare get up. The resurfaced guilt keeps him in position.

It had been an accident. He didn’t mean it. Accidents happen all the time.

But Tyler preached that accidents didn’t happen in God’s church. He preached to his congregation that only a lack of faith would cause something so traumatic to happen.

She had been beautiful.

She had lacked faith.

She would never be found.

In between each prayer for forgiveness, Tyler drinks Appalachian Diamondhead venom.

His prayer ends when the venom makes him numbs. He stands on shaky legs and remember just how much he has to do.

He brings out the vacuum cleaner from the back closet and vacuums the entire church. He grabs a rag, wets it with water and rubs down the grubby keys on the piano.

Tyler loses himself in his self-appointed chores, praying here and there and humming hymns while he does so.

He cleans every pew, uses wood polish on the pulpit and half-heartedly jogs around the inside of the church as he holds down the button on the top of a bottle of air freshener and holds it in the air.

Tyler’s mother had taught him the importance of tending to what was important to him. If it really mattered to him, she had said, he would care for it, put in the time to work at it.

Like asking the Lord for pardon, maintenance of the church needed to be done consistently.

He should obsess. It should be his entire life.

Outside, he's on his knees again.

He pulls up weeds lining the foundation and sprays bug poison in the holes chewed by pests in hopes of killing whatever is hiding under the church.

He hears breathing sometimes, can hear scratching and skittering just under his feet when he’s in the middle of a sermon.

He sprays the vile smelling poison that subsequently makes his head pleasantly dizzy and his nose run, until he believes there will be no more pesterous life under him.

The preacher only stays outside long enough for his body to go weak from the combination of snake venom and physical labor and then he’s back inside of the church, sucking up the cold AC with an open mouth.

He walks up the center strip of carpet to the pulpit and ignores the sparse sprinkles of blood embedded in the crimson fiber..

Those dark brown drops are already two years and eight months old.

It’s crazy how fast time flies. It’s crazy how blood stains.

Tyler takes another shot of venom from his flask and checks on his snakes stored in the wooden chest against the wall. Stacks upon stacks of too small plastic containers for too large snakes are piled on top of one another.

In their plastic shells, the serpents squirm and hiss and search for escape.

All but one.

Tyler spots it almost immediately. It’s easy to see when something isn’t right after doing this for so long.

The stillness of this snake is different than sleeping stillness of some of the others. It’s as if time has stopped in that far box to the right. There is peace, tranquility, a gross residue that surrounds it.

Tyler grabs the container. He peels back the lid. The cobra inside doesn’t move.

Its limp head doesn’t move under his prodding finger. The only thing the movement does is encourage its jaw to fall open. A whole fang falls out of the cobra’s mouth like a fallen whisker from a cat, a spine from a dehydrated cactus.

There are tears in Tyler’s eyes.

He lays his hands on those of his church because he believes he can heal them. He lays his hand on the cold length of the snake but it doesn’t miraculously heal. It doesn’t breathe.

Of course it wouldn’t work. It didn’t last time.

Tyler sinks to his knees. He cries. He holds the dead snake tightly in his hand like a tattered rope. Scales are shed liberally from its deflating flesh and it squishes like putty. It’s been dead for much longer than just two days.

Tyler chases the last of his tears and the torture of bitter memories with another swig from his flask. The buzz it brings him helps him collect himself.

He wipes his sticky mouth and then scratches his upper arm with his wet, sappy fingers until there are red welts burning and itching in their wake. He sniffles, snorts mucus back into his throat and swallows.

With the limp snake in his hand, Tyler walks outside and to the back of the church where the mass grave is.

A six-foot hole is hidden under a piece of plywood. Four feet of it is full of snake bones and chipped scales and leathery carcasses, both old and new.

Maybe that’s what was drawing all the pests- the smell of decay and sickness that wafted from Tyler’s very own pit of Hell.

He slides the piece of plywood from the hole. The latest layer of dirt is less than a week old. He can still see the outline of the copperhead that once took up residency in his pulpit.

Too hard had one of them grasped it, moved by the spirit of God and transcending their human toils for a second and the copperhead had suffered a break of the neck. Tyler thanks God that the parishioner that had handed it back to him had not noticed the way blood trickled from its mouth.

Now, it’s nothing more than a chain of bones, an axon of dirty calcium.

Tyler throws the cobra into the hole.

The mouth of Hell swallows it up.

Tyler is shoving a thin layer of dirt into the hole with his hands when he sees something moving in the woods. It makes his poor, exhausted heart speed up faster than it is already going.

He swears there is a ghost that lives in the woods that watches him from the edges of the trees when he’s alone and his head is pounding. The phantom wears a dress and a bright smile and beautiful golden hair flowing around it but this figure is new.

A shadow of broad shoulders and a smooth gait. It finally emerges from the edge of the forest, the sunlight illuminating him.

Pink.

“Josh...”

Josh walks across the field in the direction of the church, smiling shyly, giving a tiny wave to Tyler. It’s not a hallucination; Tyler’s mind could never cook up something this beautiful.

“Hey, Tyler,” Josh calls not too far away.

They all call him Pastor. Tyler feels normal when Josh calls him by his name.

Tyler kicks the plywood over the hole and just like that, Josh is oblivious to the fact he is standing upon hundreds of serpent bones.

Josh makes Tyler feel normal.

“Hello,” Tyler says as Josh finally makes it to him.

“Hey,” Josh waves again even though he's standing only about four feet away from him.

“How are you?” Tyler asks and tries not to sound so shocked to see Josh again or so desperate for...he doesn't know.

“I'm fine, I’m fine,” the punk says with a shrug. Tyler smiles at his awkwardness. “But are you okay, though? I, uh...heard what happened.”

Silence.

It takes a few seconds to realize what Josh means but as soon as he does, Tyler’s smile slowly dies. His brows knit together. He narrows his eyes.

“Heard what happened?” Tyler says. “From who?”

The sudden shift in tone seems to weird out Josh but he’s quickly recovering, saying how, “I have a, uh, friend who works there. He told me.”

Tyler’s mind sinks back into that calm, buzzing feeling and he doesn't care as much as he previously did.

“Oh. Yeah. I'm, uh. Okay,” Tyler says. “Just doing some work.”

He gestures to the side of the church where weeds once grew. They're piled up on the side of the church in tufts of green.

Josh nods. “Looks great.”

It's a little awkward between them. The silence is loud. There are things that Tyler wanted to say in case they ever saw each other again but now he can't remember any of them.

Well, he can remember one thing he wanted to say.

“You haven’t been at church,” Tyler states.

Josh looks at him guiltily.

“Contrary to popular belief, I won’t force you,” Tyler says. “I won’t guilt you or yell at you. You don’t get the full effect of the service if you’re upset that you’re even there.”

Josh blinks like that surprises him.

“Then what will you say to get me back to church?” he challenges lightly.

“I’ll say we miss you,” Tyler says.

The way he says it is intimate, true. It would be truer if he said, _I miss you_.

They stare at each other, a sort of unidentified tension buzzing between them. It makes Tyler’s stomach feel weird and his forehead to sweat, but maybe that's just the sun. Or the venom.

Josh looks to the ground in consideration and does not ask Tyler what the piece of plywood is doing there. He takes a step forward, steps up on it so he's right in the center.

If it wasn't there, he'd have fallen in.

“I’ll be there at the next service, Tyler Joseph,” Josh says. “I promise.”

Tyler smiles up at him as his stomach makes that flipping sensation again.

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” Tyler asks. “Other than coming to check on me and see if I'm okay after my falling incident at a pet store, I mean.”

Josh smiles, shrugs. “Nothing, really.”

“You don’t have a job?”

“Eh, kinda,” Josh says. “Doesn’t pay all that well. Not really reliable. I work from home. Computers.”

Tyler wipes the sweat from his brow and realizes just how much he missed Josh. He had only been at one service but for some reason, Tyler was already obsessed.

There are no ghosts in the woods as long as Josh is here, no grave of dead snakes, no tears shed on the inside of the church. There's no pain and Tyler is so interested to know why there's no pain with Josh.

Compelled by Josh’s beautiful presence, the warm venom in his blood and the surprise of this wonderful reunion, the preacher finds himself speaking before he even knows what he's saying.

“Do you want to come over to my house?”

Josh blinks.

“I mean,” Tyler clears his mucusy throat, “we can talk about whatever your reservations are about my service. Where you are spiritually. Why you left.”

Josh looks breathtaking in the sunlight. His hair is pinker than Tyler remembers and that's good. That's so so good.

Josh seems to think over Tyler’s offer, a finger scratching at his chin before he looks back at the pastor. All Tyler can think about is how beautiful he is and how much he missed him.

“Yeah, sure,” Josh says softly.

They both share a smile atop a grave of serpents.


End file.
